Letís just be honest with each other for a second here, okay? Iíve had too much to drink. You know it and I know it. If you donít know it, you will in a second. Trust me on this one. This isnít the usual, ďRayís sipping on whiskey while he writes and things get out of handĒ type of too much to drink, either. This is ďserious, no fooling around, knocking back shots and using highballs as chasersĒ drinking. This is ďRayís in some serious freaking pain and is once again using booze to hide the symptoms rather than deal with the problemĒ drinking.
Iím going to talk about things you probably donít want to hear aboutómostly my fucked up backóbecause Iím pissed off about it, and when Iím pissed off about something, I write about it. Then I dump it out on this website for you to either read or ignore, depending on how much of your life you feel like wasting.
For exampleóDiet Dr. Pepper commercials. Theyíre stupid. I hear them on the radio all the time, I see billboards with pictures. They compare Diet Dr. Pepper to delicious desserts. Itís ridiculous. You have a pile of donuts, you have a stack of cookies, you have a can of Diet Dr. Pepper. They arenít the same, marketing guys! I love cookies, and I love donuts. Iíll drink Diet Dr. Pepper, but only if Iím shitfaced drunk and thirsty or on a diet! Because thatís what Diet Dr. Pepper is for, is fat people who are fooling themselves into thinking they can be skinny again.
The radio commercials, they have this fake awards ceremony, ďAnd the winner for the most decadent dessert goes toÖDiet Dr. Pepper!Ē No it fucking does not. I can think of a million other things that are more decadent desserts than Diet Dr. Pepper without even trying. A hotdog dipped in peanut butter is a more decadent dessert than Diet Dr. Pepper, okay? Dessert is one thing, Diet Dr. Pepper is a whole different thing.
I understand what youíre up to, okay, marketing department? Yeah, yeah, associate Diet Dr. Pepper with all these great desserts, then when the fatties get hungry for something sweet, theyíll grab a can of your liquid disappointment. I get it. Youíre very clever. And honestly, I canít even fault you. We live in a country where Martin Luther King Jr. got assassinated, but we had to wait for Anna Nicole Smith to off herself. JFK gets popped and Paris Hilton is still walking around with her stupid ass dog and her negative IQ. Point being, this is a country full of morons. I get that. I see how easy it is to trick people with the old bait Ďn switch. ďHey, hereís candy! HaHa! Now itís Diet Dr. Pepper, a beverage that tastes like chemicalsóitís the same thing!Ē
But you need to stop. Itís overkill. Itís annoying. Your dumbass advertising campaign is having an adverse effect. Every time I hear that shit about the bimbo waitress offering a cop a fresh dozen, and he says, yeah heíll take two six-packs of Diet Dr. Pepper? Every time I hear that shit, I go buy candy, or ice cream, or any soft drink that isnít Dr. Pepper related. Because screw you, thatís why, you dumb bastards.
Anyway, enough about that for now.
Iím awake and drunk and rambling right now, and Iím pissed off about it. Because I should be asleep, sober, and not quite this angry. The screwed up nerve in my back is quickly pushing me to the breaking point. The thing is, my back doesnít even hurt. Itís my foot. The nerves in my back make my foot hurt. Lame, right?
Shit. Hereís how it feels: it feels like all the skin on my foot has been peeled off. It feels like someone is holding a fire to my exposed nerves, and wasps are stinging me in between my toes and the bones are ripping out of the top of my foot. If I touch any part of my foot, the pain is so severe that it skyrockets my heart rate and causes my stomach to cramp. I opened the refrigerator today, and the change in temperature felt like someone ripping off my toenails. Itís been like that since October 1st. Itís been like that constantly since October 1st. It doesnít go away.
It makes me want to tear down the world. Thatís why Iím awake right now. Sometimes, if I drink enough, I can sleep for more than two hours at a time, before the pain wakes me up. Without booze, the most I can hope for is twenty minutes or so, and then Iím awake, cursing, trying to walk it out enough so that I can get another twenty minutes.
The painís bad, but it isnít the worst. The worst is that I canít do shit anymore. We go grocery shopping, you know what I can carry? Toilet paper, paper towels. Loaf of bread and a bag of chips, like that. My princess has to carry the heavy stuff.
Iíve got bad eyes, wicked allergies, and a weight problem. And judging by the way my princess constantly sidesteps the question, Iím pretty sure I have a tiny penis as well. I have two things going for me in life: 1) Iím sort of clever. 2) I can lift heavy shit. Itís hard as petrified shit to be clever when youíre in incredible pain. Also, itís quite taxing to lift heavy things.
Being tough is kind of what Iím about. I know itís kind of difficult to see that, as Iím constantly bitching about shit, but itís true. You need something picked up? Iíll pick it up. You need a midget or a little kid thrown around? I can do that. Heck, Iíll even beat up people, if theyíre old and decrepit enough. Because Iím all about the toughness, you know? I hate being weak.
Seriously, thereís this guy I worked with, he had a stroke the Friday before last. The following week, dudeís already walking around better than me. He had a cane on Tuesday, and I was envious. By Thursday, he was walking without the cane, and I was even more envious. Did I mention the guyís like thirty years older than me? He is. A sixty year old stroke victim could beat me in a foot race.
Thatís a serious realization to have to face.
Oh, and if this shit gets worse, you know what happens? I lose bladder control. Damn it. I go pee every five minutes, whether I feel like I need to or not. Because thatís all I need, is to be the guy gimping around with the bad back and the soggy crotch. I donít really believe in Karma, but I canít help wondering if making all those mean-ass jokes about old people for the last fifteen years or so might be coming back to bite me in the ass.
Anyway, I think there was more I was going to say, but Iíve imbibed enough liquor to pass out for a couple hours, which is convenient, considering the fact that I have to take a test tomorrow morning.
One more thing before I go: This weekend is my one-year anniversary. Iíll be the first to admit that sometimes my anger and bitterness isnít justified. But think about this for a second. This is my first anniversary; I canít sit, stand, or lay down without incredible pain shooting up and down my leg, as well as the aforementioned bullshit going on with my foot. Iím going to leave you free to form your own conclusions here, but you can rest assured that there are certain matrimonial acrobatics that will have to remain unfulfilled because of this crap with my back.
And that pisses me off.